


Fun and Bruises

by IgnorantArmies



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Young Avengers
Genre: Clint gets beaten up, Gen, Hawkguy, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Kate is perfect, Mostly hurt, One Shot, don't bring a bow to a knife fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3223181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnorantArmies/pseuds/IgnorantArmies





	Fun and Bruises

“Kate?”

Clint’s voice came out like ripped paper. His lungs refused to inflate properly, and the little air he could take in was splintered with pain. The familiar ache of broken ribs. A bubbling of blood in his throat. The slow thickening of the senses before shock came crashing down. He lay on a bed of shattered glass and crumbling concrete, half-crushed by debris from the explosion. Explosions? Plural. He couldn’t remember. All was quiet now, at least. To his left, a fire lazily took hold of a stack of pallets and the warmth was soothing, threatening to lull him into a concussed nap.  He fought against the flickering of his eyelids. There was something more important than sleep. There was a word he was meant to say. Something someone needed to hear. A name. Whose name? More important than dying. His head lurched up and clarity hit him like a pistol-whip.

“Kate!”

She had been standing right in front of him. Right beneath a wall of windows that blew out like a glass firework when the room blew itself into a hundred thousand itty bitty pieces of brick and drywall. He tried to shake the double vision away, tried to haul himself up, but something was crushing his legs and everything below his thighs was numb. He stopped struggling to catch the little breath he could keep down. _Stop moving. Start thinking._

She’d had a case – some unsavoury characters fond of arson and blackmail – and she reckoned two bows were better than one. Clint suspected she’d really just checked his TIVO history and realised he’d been watching Dog Cops reruns for thirteen hours straight. He could do with the exercise. A tip off had led them to a half-built apartment block. Clint had said it was a trap – of course it was, she knew that as well as anyone – but in she went like a sassy little cat burglar and he couldn’t just let her have all the fun and bruises. Then, from nowhere, from out of the frickin’ walls – a bunch of bros in masks and Kevlar, handguns that fired pellets filled with some sort of napalm bullshit that burned white-hot and maxed out his hearing aids until his eardrums burst. Everything went kind of blurry after that.

The darkness pressed down on him – or maybe it was the rubble – either way, he could barely move and his voice wasn’t loud enough and damnit she’d been looking right at him when the walls collapsed around them. His aching brain made a few geographical calculations based on the few remaining load-bearing structures still standing and focused his eyes towards the blank space where the windows had been. Nothing moved.

He took in a slow, measured, agonising breath. “Kate!”

Ripped paper. Ripped throat. He pushed harder and swallowed blood. “Hawkeye!” It was her name really – it suited her better.

A scrabbling from across the room sent adrenaline trickling behind his ears and down between his shoulder blades. Concussion pulsed in his temples. His eyes couldn’t adjust to the low light, no matter how hard he strained. He twisted an arm free of the debris and slapped himself in the face. _‘Cause that’ll help, genius._ The scrabbling stopped for a moment, then became frantic, accompanied by a low grunting pant.

 _Not Kate_.

Clint thought he’d clipped one of the Kevlar guys in the thigh with an arrow before everything turned fiery. Kate, of course, had managed to take down two more but that was irrelevant right now. This one was still moving.

Clint dragged his other arm from beneath him and crept his fingers out in front for his bow but found only glass. The scrabbling had turned into the clatter of plaster and unsteady footsteps. Clint tried to kick his legs to dislodge whatever was on top of him. His left leg shifted an inch and debris tumbled down around him in a cloud of dust. _Way to give away your position, Dummy._ He tried not to cough - if even breathing hurt, coughing would be a seriously bad idea. Another kick, another mushroom cloud of cement powder. When it cleared, his eyes caught the flash of a little red light to his right – an error pattern for the wireless connector between his bow and his quiver. _Fucking technology_. But at least he knew where his bow was. Too far away to reach, probably too busted to fire anything but warning shots, but his fingers itched for it. He needed the reassurance of its grip in his hand.

The guy across the room had fallen silent. In the dim light from the broken windows, Clint could make out a hunched figure leaning against a mound of rubble. _Definitely not Kate._ But she would be close by, and he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting free before Kevlar guy found her. Clint reached for his bow again. His left leg slipped out a little further. Sweat stung his eyes. The effort of straining caused the countless small cuts and scratches that covered him to bleed even more enthusiastically. When he looked up again, Kevlar guy had disappeared. Clint didn’t breathe, waiting for the telltale high-pitched skree of the explosive bullets he was sure would rain down on him any second. But there was only silence. 

Panic surged through him. The masked guy wouldn’t just bail. He wouldn’t leave either Hawkeye alive. And if he wasn’t coming after Clint, then…  _  
_

Clint fixed his eyes on his bow and braced his left foot against a chunk of concrete, shoving desperately with the last of his strength, yanking himself forward until his right leg came free.

And then he wished he hadn’t.

Clint couldn’t stop the yell of pain tearing out of his throat. His right ankle was beyond broken. He wasn't even sure it could still be classified as an ankle. And without the numbing crush of the rubble, every pain receptor in his body decided to tell him about it. His scream gradually faded into a gasp and then a hiss. _So much for being stealthy._

He rolled onto his back and blinked into the darkness, tears mixing with the cold sweat on his face. The only sound his ears would register was the slamming of his heart against his ribcage. The guy would be coming for him now, at least - an easy target. Clint’s left arm flopped out and found his bow, confirming his suspicions with a sad little "aww" – the weapon was shattered, not even worth using as a club. He could hear Kevlar guy’s steady limping approach now – quiet movement in the dark ruins was impossible – and Clint ran through his limited options with a tired sort of apathy. No bow. No angle to use throwing knives. Trying to put weight on his ankle was pointless - he’d pass out before he made it to his feet. Passing out? That sounded good. Why didn’t he go with that?

He was half-way there when he heard her voice, reassuringly disappointed in how fast he'd given up: “Hawkeye.”

His eyes sprang open. He had no idea if she’d really spoken or was just floating around in his subconscious. He didn’t have time to work it out. Kevlar guy was right above him, mid-leap, coming down fast, knife-first. Clint rolled a little too late and the blade caught him on the arm, tearing through the bicep and adding a fresh sting to the general ache of his battered body. He brought his elbow up behind him and was rewarded with the crack of Kevlar guy’s nose breaking. The guy reeled for a second, wiping blood out of his eyes, and Clint managed to bring his bow up just in time to deflect the next stabbing attempt.

Time became fluid. Moonlight flashed off the blade. Clint followed each jab and slice as if they were in slow motion. He could cope with knives. He was glad the guy had lost his gun, or perhaps he just didn’t want to risk another blast. Guns were messy, unpredictable. Knives had a flow – the trick was to find the pattern and get ahead of it. It was just like being back in carny, always trying to push a little harder, move a little quicker, make the audience gasp a little louder. He blocked and parried and let Kevlar guy work off his adrenaline boost. He could see the frustration rising in the guy’s eyes and was counting on him making a mistake soon – out of anger or exhaustion. All Clint had to do was stay alive until then.

He brought his good knee up into the guy’s gut. Kevlar grunted but didn’t pause. Clint’s head snapped to the side as an armoured glove backhanded him across the face. He felt more than heard the knife come down again, heading straight for his throat. Clint sent his left fist upward, sacrificing his bow, still clutched in his hand. It smashed against the guy’s chin with a satisfying crunch. The knife grazed off Clint’s shoulder. Kevlar guy stumbled back, spitting out half a tooth.

Clint scooted away, trying to get a purchase on the rubble, eyes on the knife that he knew would return. The guy paused, watching him, putting two and two together – why he hadn’t used the opportunity to get to his feet. Even though the guy wore a mask, Clint could see him smile. His eyes drifted down to Clint's right leg, lying useless at an angle that was wholly unnatural.

“Wait-”

Before Clint could move, Kevlar guy took aim and stamped down on his wrecked ankle.

Clint’s world glowed white. It might as well have been another bomb. He folded in half as pain streaked up his leg and into his spine, into the base of his skull, blinding him with a pure, freezing agony. He reached for his ankle but couldn't work out which way was down. He fell back against the ground. His breath came out ragged and irregular. He gave each exhalation a name:  “Kate.” And this time he didn’t want to hear her call back. All he wanted was for her to have got out of here. To have left him behind.

Kevlar guy was back, kneeling on Clint’s chest, pushing on his cracked ribs until they creaked. He groaned, hacking up thick, dark blood, and didn’t even have the energy to spit it at his enemy. The guy took a handful of Clint’s hair and pulled his head back, pressing his knife against Clint’s exposed neck. Clint closed his eyes and waited for the blood to drown him. Knives didn’t bother him. Knives were quick and precise.

But he was quicker.

His hand knew the way to his quiver better than his brain. He didn’t even realise he had an arrow in his fist until it was stuck three inches into Kevlar guy’s right eye. The other eye blinked. Before the guy had time to scream, another arrow tip emerged from his Adam’s apple. The knife dropped to the ground with a clatter. Clint lay gasping on his back as the guy crumpled to the side. In his place stood another figure, posture perfect, bow lowered but ready to take a follow-up shot if necessary. Covered in concrete dust, she looked like a ghost. 

"Katie-Kate," Clint whispered, so quiet she must not have heard him. Or maybe she was letting it slide, just this time.

When she was sure Kevlar guy wasn’t going to get up, she took a tentative step towards Clint. Her eyes took in the blood and the dirt and the broken bones with a calm sort of disapproval.

She nocked a hand to her hip. “You wanna get out of here, Hawkeye?”

Clint’s voice came out like ripped paper, softened with a smile. “Okay, Hawkeye.”


End file.
